Where do I begin? It’s a constant riddle,
A puzzle that taunts me, a daily test,
The never-ending quest for the smallest dribble
Of inspiration, like a bird building its nest.

I sit and ponder with pen in hand,
Waiting for thoughts to magically appear,
But my mind is blank, like an empty sand,
And the muse seems to be nowhere near.

Oh, how I envy those who effortlessly create,
Whose words flow like a river, smooth and clear,
While I struggle here, drowning in this state,
Lost amidst the chaos that I hold dear.

But perhaps the search is the beauty of it all,
A chance to wander, to stumble, to fall.

For where do the rivers find their starting place?
From a tiny trickle, an unassuming grace,
And so it may be for this poet too,
To find beginnings in something small and true.

In the whispers of the wind or the smell of rain,
In the laughter of children or even in pain,
Inspiration lies in the everyday,
Hidden in plain sight, if you dare to say.

So, let us begin where we never thought to start,
In the ordinary moments that fill our heart,
For amidst the chaos, if we take the time,
We might find the spark that makes a poem rhyme.

And when the words finally find their place,
Like a neat couplet in a sonnet’s embrace,
I’ll realize that it was never about where to begin,
But rather the journey, the search deep within.
© Tiger64X2